


A Little Unsteady

by rubygirl29



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Thanksgiving, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, War Veteran Sam Wilson, War Veteran Steve Rogers, War Weteran Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 20:36:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8637229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: Sometimes, when you're feeling unsteady, it's okay to take somebody's offer of a hand up. Bucky and Steve are homeless veterans, Sam is a cinnamon roll, too good for this world. This story is rated M, primarily for language and the hint of a relationship between Bucky and Steve in the future.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Thanksgiving. I can only wish that our homeless veterans can find a safe place on this day.

**A Little Unsteady**

November has a nasty habit of sneaking up on New York. One day, it's mild and sunny, the next the winds are howling from the northeast and the skies are sleeting down ice needles. Sam Wilson unlocks the door of the Brooklyn Veterans Center and stamps his way inside. The heat in the building is shitty, but the wheezing boiler produces enough steam to raise the temperature to a tolerable level. What will happen when it's sub-zero is anybody's guess. He'll have to solicit for funds in the spring. 

The center is basically a storefront with a small lobby, two offices, a meeting room space with a kitchen, and up a creaky flight of stairs, a dormitory style room for emergency occupants. It's not meant to be a regular shelter — just a safe space for a night or two. Four simple twin beds with enough room for two sleeping bags tucked into the corners, because Sam knows that some of the vets have a hard time sleeping on mattresses, or just need a dark corner to curl into. There is a bathroom with a shower on the floor. The subway tile is cracked in places and the linoleum has seen better days, but the plumbing is updated, and there's a new hot water heater courtesy of a donation from the Stark Foundation. The money also paid for fresh paint, tables and chairs for the meeting room and computers for the offices. Other than that, Sam's budget is on a shoestring and a prayer. 

Sharon Carter, his therapist and associate director comes in from the sleet. Her red coat is dusted with snow, and sure enough, when Sam looks outside, the sleet has turned to snow. Great. Sharon shakes the snow from her knit hat. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Yeah, if you're on a beach in Hawaii. How does your schedule look?"

"Just the women's group this morning and two private appointments. I was kind of hoping if this weather keeps up that I could leave after my two o'clock. Aunt Peggy asked if I could help her with Thanksgiving dinner. No matter how much I tell her that it's really just like Christmas in England, she stresses over all the traditional American dishes, like pumpkin pie and cornbread stuffing."

Sam likes Sharon, and he adores Peggy. "Sure. Might as well."

"Thank you." She kisses his cheek. "Sorry about Thanksgiving."

"No, I'm fine. You get your notes together for the meeting and I'll start the coffee."

Sam also boots up the computers. At nine on the nose, the phone rings. He should have known it wouldn't be a quiet day. By the time Sharon's group breaks up at 1pm, Sam feels like he's already put in a full day's work. Calls taper off around noon, and Sam and Sharon take their lunches in companionable silence; Sharon working on her tablet and Sam reading one of his textbooks. He's halfway to his Masters degree in psychology and uses every spare minute to study. 

Then the phone rings again, and Sam shuts his book. "I knew it couldn't last." He picks up the call at the front desk. The voice on the other end is querulous and worried. "How can I help?" he asks. 

"There are two homeless men sleeping in the alley next to my building."

"Ma'am, this is a facility for veterans, not for the general public. I can give you —"

"One of 'em is missing an arm. The other is wearing an old army coat and he don't sound too good."

Sam sighs inwardly. "Okay. Give me the address and I'll check in on them."

"Good." She hangs up abruptly. 

Sam looks in on Sharon. "I've got to go out. I'll be back before three, I swear."

Sharon narrows her eyes. "Don't make promises you can't keep. Do you need back-up?"

"Nah, it's just two homeless guys in an alley. It looks like at least one of them is a veteran." He ties his scarf around his throat. "How's the clothing stock?"

"Actually, pretty good. Clint and Phil dropped off a lot of things the other day."

"See you in a bit," Sam says and braces himself to go out into the snow. The temperature is dropping and the snow is getting heavier. Sam thinks that even if the guys aren't veterans, he'll offer them a place to stay for the night. He won't have anybody freezing to death on his watch.

Thankfully, the address is only a block away from the center. The alley runs between two four story brownstones that look like they're partially under renovation. With the lack of sunlight, and the narrow space that hardly qualifies as an alley it's almost impossible to see anything. Sam peers into the shadows.. "Hello? Hey, anybody back there?" 

A large shape resolved from the darkness and his eyes adjust. He hears what sounds like a wracking cough and then one shape separates itself from the other. A man steps forward. He's taller than Sam and looks bulkier, but that could be from multiple layers of clothing. His hair is long and lank, and the left sleeve of the man's jacket is hanging loose and empty. "What d'you want?" he rasps.

"Umm, hey. My name is Sam Wilson. I run the Veterans Center a block down. You a vet?"

The man's lips quirk in his unshaven face. "Yeah."

"Your friend?"

"I don't even know his name, but I think so. I kinda found him back here."

"Listen, it's real cold and getting colder, and he doesn't sound so good. The center's open 24/7 if you'd like to come in and stay the night." The man appraises Sam, like he's expecting Sam to roll him. Sam holds out his hands. "Listen, if you don't want to come with me, that's cool. But for the sake of your friend —"

"I told you, he's not my friend."

"Fine, your not friend, then. For his sake, take a walk down the block. I'll be there to let you in."

The man gives him a sharp, dismissive nod. "Maybe. I don't need another death on my conscience."

Sam stuffs his hands back in his pockets and backs out of the alley. He's done what he can, he made the offer. It's up to the guy to take it or leave it. He returns to the center, and even with the iffy boiler, it's a relief to be warm and out of the wind.

Sharon comes out of her office. "No takers on your offer of hospitality?"

Sam sighs as he hangs up his jacket. "I don't know. Maybe. You know they don't trust easily. He seemed pretty normal for a guy missing an arm. His friend sounds like he's in bad shape physically. I'll call Bruce and have him on standby if they come in and he's as sick as he sounds."

Sharon takes her coat off the hook. "Are you sure you'll be okay?"

Sam glares at her. "I'm a seasoned combat veteran and I've got the medals to prove it."

Sharon bites her lip, hesitating despite Sam's assurance. Sam makes a shooing motion with his his hands. "Go. Give Aunt Peggy my wishes for a happy Thanksgiving. I'll see you on Monday."

"Have a good one, Sam. I'll pay you back over Christmas." She kisses his cheek.

"I'll remind you of that!" Sam calls as she heads outside. "Will I be okay," he mutters to himself. "Really, Carter?" Great, now he's talking to himself. He turns on an innocuous sports talk radio station and starts working on the small mountain of paperwork involved in running a non-profit organization, even one as small as the center. 

He works until he has to turn on the lights. He peers outside. The snow hasn't let up, and Sam wonders what happened to the men in the alley. He did his best. He can't physically drag them here. He goes back to the kitchen and starts up a pot of coffee. He's just returning to his desk when there's a knock at the door.

Sam checks the security camera. Two men, one with an empty sleeve. He opens the door. "Come on in. Don't make me stand here letting in the cold air."

The soldier nudges his companion. Sam is surprised that he's taller than the soldier He's swathed to the nose in a muffler and all Sam can see is watery blue eyes beneath a dark watch cap. "C'mon." He puts his arm around the taller man's waist. "It's warm here." He guides him over to a chair and starts taking off the battered fatigue jacket. He doesn't fight Sam, but as soon as the jacket is off, he starts shivering and coughing. Sam touches his forehead. "Man, you're burning up. You should go to a hospital."

"No!" He manages to rasp out, grabbing Sam's wrist. "No hospital. I don't have insurance, I can't pay, and I won't go to the VA." 

He starts coughing again and Sam turns to the one-armed man. "Good thing you brought him here. I'm gonna call our staff doctor. Okay? At least he can reassure me that you're not gonna expire in my lobby. That's just bad publicity." He hears an amused cough from the Winter Soldier, as he's starting to think of the one-armed man. "Can you talk some sense into your friend?"

"He's not my friend," he insists, but he hunkers down in front of his sick companion. "Hey, the doc's gotta be better than a hospital, right? And I'm not a medic, but man, you're sick and I feel kind of responsible for you."

"You're not responsible for me."

"Too late." The soldier looks up at Sam. "Okay, call the doc."

Sam does, and less than ten minutes later, the doctor arrives. Bruce Banner is stronger than he looks, but he manages to appear small and harmless. His voice is quiet and his touch is gentle as he does a quick examination. 

"What's your name?" he asks, when he's finished.

"Steve."

"Well, Steve. You've got bronchitis, a fever, and you probably haven't been eating well for some time. How long have you been on the streets?"

"Couple of weeks. It was warm enough." Just those few words set him to coughing again. 

"Asthma?" Bruce asks more like a statement than a question.

"Yeah, got that, too. Used up my last inhaler."

Bruce swears under his breath. "Okay. I'm going to run out and get a couple of prescriptions." He turns to Sam. "He can have some ibuprofen for the fever. I'll be back as soon as possible."

Sam suddenly realizes that the Soldier is no longer in the room. He's sitting on the stairs, clutching the side of the bannister like his life depends on it and breathing too fast. . Sam keeps his distance, but speaks quietly. "Hey, man. You're safe. Can you maybe breathe a little slower and deeper for me? He sits about three feet away. "C'mon, breathe with me. In and out. In and out … " When the soldier's breathing evens out, Sam sighs. "You okay?"

"I don't do so well with doctors," he admits, not looking at Sam. 

"I can't imagine why," Sam jests mildly and is rewarded with a twitch of a smile. "How about you go to the kitchen and get some coffee while I rustle up some ibuprofen for your buddy, Steve."

"Not my buddy."

"Oh, I think saving him kinda makes you his buddy, if not his friend for life." Sam stand up. "There's probably some bread and peanut butter if you're starving. I'll rustle up something that's more like a meal later. Ah … I don't know your name."

"Barnes. James Barnes. Used to be a sergeant."

"Sam Wilson. Used to be a sergeant, too. Pararescue. You?"

"Special Forces."

"Well, damn, James. That's impressive. Nice to meet you." He holds out his hand. James looks down at his own and shakes his head. His glove is filthy and wet with snow. 

"Later."

"If you like, after you have something to eat, you can clean up in the bathroom upstairs. If you need clothes, there's a stash in the closet down the hall. Free of charge."

A blush tints James's cheeks beneath the stubble. "Thanks," he mumbles. "Think I'll do that before I eat." He stands up and makes his way towards the clothing stash. Sam watches from the corner of his eye as he takes out the plainest, darkest clothing he can find. He goes upstairs, and and a minute later, the water comes on. Sam fetches ibuprofen and water from Bruce's infirmary, which is nothing more than a tiny room with an examination table, a floor lamp and a cupboard with non-prescription meds and first aid supplies. 

Just another day, he thinks, but at least he's doing some good for somebody rather than sitting and stuffing himself at his mom's table. He'll see her tomorrow and eat leftovers until he's groaning.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Bucky had never intended to be homeless. It just crept up on him one tiny step at a time, starting with getting shot when his patrol had come under attack outside of Kabul. He never thought his army life would end with weeks spent in the hospital while the doctors tried to save his arm, finally having to amputate it due to a life-threatening infection. That's when he was given a stack of ribbons and a letter saying in effect, _Thanks for your service and BTW we're sorry you lost your arm on our watch. See ya._

Bucky used his back pay and his monthly disability check to put a down payment on an apartment with a month by month lease. He had even picked up a part-time job doing bookkeeping at a sandwich shop. Then the dominoes started falling. He got sick. Salmonella, the doctors at Bellevue said and kept him for several days on IV fluids. Then being in the hospital made his PTSD issues raise their ugly head and he wound up in the psych ward for a week until the shrinks got his diagnosis right. It just happened to be the week his rent was due. He was discharged only to find his worldly possessions — thank fuck they were meager — at the front desk, and his room let to somebody else. When he went to the sandwich shop, it had been closed by the health department. His first night on the streets, he'd been beaten and robbed by a gang out to roll a few drunks. His cash was gone, along with his bank card. 

He had no address, no job, no credit cards. He didn't have a drivers license, because who the fuck needed or wanted one in New York, and it wasn't like he would ever use it. The only ID he had on him was his dog tags, and nobody was going to believe they were his and not something he'd picked up at a pawn shop or surplus store. 

He hated shelters. Hated the smell of other bodies that reminded him too much of sleeping with ghosts. He used the showers at the Y, washed his clothes out in the sinks, tried to keep clean. He found a leather jacket in somebody's trash. Other than some wear on the elbows and a ripped pocket it was in good condition and he was grateful that the hipsters and millennials living in Brooklyn discarded things so easily. 

He scavenged on nights before trash pick-up and found blankets, books, clothes, pens and paper, and once, a wallet with fifty dollars in it. He wasn't about to look for the owner. He never intended to panhandle, but he discovered that as long as he was clean, people would thank him for his service and buy him coffee and a meal. It was never enough food, but he wasn't starving. He hit the soup kitchens on days when nobody brought him a meal, and that was enough to keep him going. 

He was doing okay, even if he slept in alleys and had nightmares that left him shaking and crying like a six year old. One morning, he woke and found frost on his blankets. Logically, he knew he had to find shelter before winter. He knew he had to contact the VA for help with his lost ID so he could actually take money out of the bank and find a place to stay, but every time he thought about it, he got the shakes so bad he couldn't even speak. He told himself it would just take time. Time ran out with the first snow.

And then he found the guy in the alley. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

The water is lukewarm by the time Bucky finishes daydreaming. He turns it off and towels himself dry. He's picked out socks and underwear, black jeans faded to gray in places but not really worn out, a long sleeved dark red Henley and a black hoodie from the stock of donated clothing. He'll ask about doing laundry. His own clothes are still serviceable and his boots are sturdy and reasonably new, courtesy of Uncle Sam. He leaves the laces undone. Another annoyance to add to the list of tasks only having one arm makes problematical. 

Fortunately, his hair is thick and straight. A little long, but not unmanageable. He'd bartered sweeping the floor of a barbershop for a shave and a haircut a week ago. He likes it longer. His SF Captain encouraged the men to go rogue, to try to look more like the locals and less like interlopers. His men had been happy to comply. Bucky drew the line at a full beard, preferring to keep it to heavily grown stubble. Now, beneath the stubble his face is too thin, his eyes too haunted and dark-circled. He turns away after finger-combing his hair into some sort of order. 

He is ready for coffee, food, and probably more questions that he doesn't want to answer. 

Wilson is in the kitchen stirring a pot of soup. There are grilled cheese sandwiches on a plate and Sam ladles tomato soup into a mug, which makes Bucky want to cry at the kindness as it's so much simpler than dealing with a spoon. He doesn't mean to wolf down his sandwich, but it's so good … the best thing he's eaten in days. The bread is buttery and crisp, the cheese is a mix of sharp cheddar and mozzarella, perfectly melted. Sam doesn't say a word, just sets another sandwich on his plate and refills his mug. Bucky manages to eat at a more courteous pace. When he's finished, he sits back with a sigh. "That was great. Thank you."

"More coffee?"

"Please."

Sam pours two mugs and joins him at the table. "So, how'd you meet your not friend?"

"It's not like we 'met'." Bucky replies. "Like I said, it was more like I found him. I was just trying to get out of the wind and ducked into that alley. I heard him coughing, saw the army jacket and went to help."

"How long have you been on the streets?"

Bucky decides it's a fair enough question. "'Bout three months."

"Is there any reason why you didn't look for assistance — and don't give me none of that pride bullshit." 

Bucky could take offense, but Sam says it with a glint of laughter in his eyes as well as sad comprehension. Maybe it's time to ask for help. He tells Sam about being mugged and losing everything. Sam reaches out and briefly touches his forearm. "I can help you with that. Might take a few weeks, but nothing is insurmountable."

Bucky figures that maybe his PTSD was keeping him from thinking logically. "I don't know where to start," he admits. "I tried going to the VA."

"I hear you, man. They're huge, sometimes dehumanizing even if they don't mean to be, and everything is complicated. That's why a center like us can be an intermediary. We work with them, not against them, but because we're small, we can get stuff done in half the time. Nothing we do is illegal or against the system. We're just geared differently."

"What's the first step?" Bucky can't even think where to start.

"Where were you born?"

"Brooklyn, believe it or not."

"Then the first thing we do is get a copy of your birth certificate. Then go to Social Security for replacement cards and get your service records and discharge papers from the Army. But we can't do anything until Monday, so sit back and enjoy the hospitality." 

"Monday? Why not tomorrow?"

"Dude, tomorrow's Thanksgiving." Sam gives him a sympathetic look. "Lost track of the date?"

"It's not like I have a social calendar," Bucky says with a touch of acidic humor. "You're closed tomorrow?"

"Hell, no! I've got two 20 pound turkeys to cook, and friends coming to help with everything else. We're open for all veterans who want to share a meal in a safe space. That includes you and your not-friend upstairs."

Bucky can't meet Sam's eyes. "I .. ah, I don't like crowds."

"I hear you. If being at the table is too much, there's other rooms open for you to go to. But I'd like you to try first. Sometimes, it's easier than you think being in a place with people who understand what you've been through."

It doesn't make sense because life hasn't been easy since the doctors told him they'd have to amputate his arm. But he owes Wilson for the offer of a place to stay and for the promise of help in untangling the mess that is Bucky's life. And for saving Steve, whoever he is. 

Sam puts a piece of chocolate cake in front of him. Bucky starts to say he's had plenty to eat, even though the cake is making his mouth water. 

Sam begs, "Eat it, please. I need room in the refrigerator for pies tomorrow."

If he's going to put it like that, who is Bucky to refuse? As he eats, Sam says, "There's books in the meeting room if you want something to read. Or you could watch a movie."

Bucky finishes the last of the cake. "Thanks, but I think I'll just crash. It's been a while since I slept on a real bed. Do you have some milk?"

 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

"So," Dr. Banner asks Steve. "How'd you end up in an alley with your own protector?" He hands Steve a pill with an explanation. "It's just an antibiotic. One a day for five days. No alcohol. I picked up an inhaler, too. You shouldn't go back on the streets, but I think you know that, Captain Rogers."

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it to think about his answers. "How did you know that?"

"Unlike your friend, I've seen the 60 Minutes profile of — and I quote, 'Steve Rogers: The Real Captain America.'"

"That aired two years ago." He forgets to ask what friend the doctor is talking about. As far as he knows, he doesn't have friends at the moment. 

"You're not exactly forgettable," Banner chuckles gently. 

"You're thinking how low the mighty have fallen," Steve says, his voice bitter. 

Bruce busies himself opening the inhaler and handing it over. Steve takes two hits and his breathing starts easing quickly. "Okay, I'm curious. How did you end up on the streets?"

Steve muscles himself upright. His head feels vaguely less cottony, and his vision is clearing. He can _breathe_ again. "I came home from my last tour to find that my mother had cancer. Stage four lung cancer. I couldn't believe it. She never smoked a day in her life."

"It happens," Bruce says quietly. "I'm sorry." 

"That's what they all said — insurance companies, hospitals, doctors." He can't keep the bitterness from his voice. "She was a nurse, you know. Private duty, self-insured. Of course, she felt she had to economize so she went with the cheapest she could get. Coverage was pretty basic, and not meant for catastrophic illnesses. She worked as long as she could, but eventually her body broke down and her coverage lapsed. When I came home, I used every cent of my military pay to keep a roof overhead, to pay for her chemo, and at the end, her funeral."

"You weren't responsible for her debts," Bruce said. 

"Yeah, fuck that. That's not how I was raised. I was paying everything off and scraping by when the building we lived in was sold. The new owner decided to raise the rent. I tell you, doc. Do you know what a two bedroom apartment in Park Slope goes for these days? More than I can afford."

He sighs and plucks at the blanket covering his legs. "I thought it would be for a few days, just until I found someplace to rent. I mean, I slept in caves in the Hindu Kush. I thought a few days in a Brooklyn November would be a cakewalk."

"Then you got sick."

Steve sighs. "I was in some heavy fire zones in Iraq after my tour in Afghanistan. Buildings were bombed, the insurgents had small stashes of homemade chemical weapons. I probably breathed it in. The army docs said I should return stateside for evaluation. The results weren't promising. That's why I decided to leave the army. My mom and the lung cancer? Not great odds that I wouldn't be compromised, right?"

He stops talking, suddenly exhausted. "How'd I get here?" he asks.

"Your friend brought you here."

"Friend?" There it is again, the mysterious friend. "I don't know who you mean."

"One-armed guy? Also a veteran?"

Steve shakes his head. "Not ringing any bells." He's suddenly exhausted. He can't keep his eyes open. "Tell him thanks if he's still around," he murmurs before sleep overcomes him like the night. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Bucky's finished with his cake and milk when Bruce pokes his head in the kitchen door. "I got your friend upstairs. He's sleeping. His fever is down, and his breathing is easier. If he gets worse, call me." He wraps his scarf around his neck and zips up his parka. "And, incidentally, that's Captain America himself, you saved, Barnes. Steve Rogers." He winks at Bucky and ducks out the door. There's a brief chill as the front door opens, then silence. 

Bucky looks at Wilson. "Well, fuck me sideways," he sighs. "I didn't see that one coming."

Sam laughs at his dumbfounded expression. "Guess that makes you more of a hero than you already are, Barnes."

"I'm not a hero," Bucky mumbles and stalks out of the kitchen. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

 

Steve wakes up to quiet breathing and dim light. There's another guy sleeping in the room. Steve manages to get upright even though he's still feeling dizzy. He really has to use the toilet. He lurches and stumbles noisily. The other occupant sits bolt upright, alert. Too alert. Steve knows what that's like. 

"What? What's wrong?" his voice is raspy with sleep. He runs a hand through his messy hair. "You need the doc?"

"No! Nothing's wrong. I-I gotta use the head."

The man shoves back his covers. "You need help?"

Steve considers how far away the floor seems. "Maybe?"

The other man gets up and even in the dim light, Steve can see that he's an amputee. "You brought me here?"

"Yeah." He stands next to Steve. His right shoulder is the perfect height for support as they walk to the bathroom. 

Steve stops at the door. "I can manage from here."

"Sure. I'll just hang out here and wait for the sound of your body hitting the floor."

"Ha-ha." Steve really hopes he can stay upright long enough to pee. He does, barely. He's grateful that he has a somebody to lean on as they go back to the bedroom. "Did you bring me here?" he asks.

"You don't remember?"

"Sorry, I don't. What's your name?"

"James. Or Bucky."

Steve swears the guy is blushing. "Bucky?"

"My middle name is Buchanan."

Steve laughs and Bucky stiffens. "Sorry. It's not your name. It's well … I'm Steve. Middle name Grant. Our parents had similar tastes in bad presidents, apparently."

"Hey, at least yours helped win the war. Mine helped start it." They're back in the dormitory and Bucky lowers Steve to the bed. "You need anything else?"

"No, I'm good. Thanks for … "

"What?"

"Saving my life, for one. Bringing me here. Helping me."

"You're welcome." The words are so quiet that Steve isn't sure he's heard them. "G'night, Steve."

"Goodnight, Bucky." It's insanely comforting to have somebody near, to be warm, to feel safe. He doesn't analyze it. He accepts it and drifts back to sleep.

"Goodnight, Captain America." Steve doesn't hear him say that. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Bucky is wakened by the scents of coffee brewing, bacon frying, and other savory aromas. He blinks up at the ceiling, trying to get his memories in order. It's been a while since he's actually slept in a bed with a mattress and soft blankets, and a pillow cradling his head. Okay, he's in Brooklyn, in the veterans center run by Sam Wilson. He's safe and warm. But he's not alone. 

He turns his head to see Steve Rogers in the bed next to his. His breathing is regular, if a bit raspy, but nothing like yesterday. Bucky takes a minute to look at him. Even with his hair matted by fever sweat and the shadows around his eyes, he's still one of the most beautiful men Bucky has ever seen. His lashes are stupid long, his lips are full, his jaw is positively heroic. 

By comparison, Bucky feels broken, worn out. Like he deserves to be on the streets. But not today. Today, he'll be warm, well-fed, and rested. Reluctantly, he gets up, leaving his warm nest of blankets behind. The room isn't cold, but it's not as warm as Bucky wishes it was. He gets dressed in the clothes he wore yesterday and goes downstairs. 

Sam is standing by the stove, stirring something in a frying pan. He looks up when he hears the sound of Bucky's boots scuffing the floor. "Morning." He tilts his head towards the coffeemaker. "Help yourself. There's oatmeal in the crock pot, if you're interested."

Of course he's interested. His stomach is growling already. He starts with coffee and adds cream even though he usually takes it black. Cream is a luxury. The oatmeal has cranberries, walnuts and cinnamon it it. A small pitcher of maple syrup is set aside, along with more cream. Bucky fills a bowl, adds a swirl of syrup and a dab more cream. "You should open a restaurant," he tells Sam, who just laughs. 

"I don't want to work that hard."

"You need some help? I mean, I've only got one arm, but I figure I can make pie filling."

"Really?"

"I grew up with three sisters who loved decorating but hated cooking, so my ma assigned me to KP. I remember a few things she taught me. Like adding a bit of cream cheese and orange zest to pumpkin pie filling. I can't do the crust but …"

Sam takes out two pie pans of pre-made crust and two cans of pumpkin. "Knock yourself out. How's your roomie?"

Bucky blinks at him. "My what?"

"Captain America? Steve Rogers? The guy sleeping in the same room as you?"

Bucky blushes hard. "Seems okay. He's breathing better and not coughing. Still might have a fever though."

"Hmm." Sam gives him a look and is about to say something when the phone in the lobby rings and Sam excuses himself. "This shouldn't take long."

Bucky sets his mouth into a more stern line and carries on with his pie filling. When the filling is smooth, he calls out, "Hey, Sam, I need some help with this …"

Instead of Sam, a long arm reaches around him and takes the bowl. "I can do it," Steve says. He pours the exact amount of filling into each shell, scraping it out with the whisk Bucky had used to beat the filling. 

"Thanks," Bucky manages not to stutter because Steve, cleaned up and smelling like heat and soap is almost too gorgeous to be real. "Are you okay?"

"I think so." He carries the pies over to the oven slides them in. "Is there coffee?"

Bucky pours him a mug. Steve adds cream and sugar, which makes Bucky grimace. "Are you sure you were in the Army?"

Steve laughs. "Your coffee must've been better than mine. Sludge, pure sludge. The only way it was drinkable was to load it up with sugar and condensed milk."

"You win." They grin at each other, and maybe their eyes lock for longer than they need to. Bucky doesn't off back down easily, and Steve's eyes are wide and blue. He finally gets up and ladles out a bowl of oatmeal and sets the cream and maple syrup down. 

"Try it," is all he says.

Steve takes a mouthful. For oatmeal, it's not bad. "So, you bake?" Steve asks after he swallows. Anything to break that thin line of tension between them.

"Just pumpkin pie," Bucky shrugs. "My mom's recipe."

"Mine wasn't much of a cook, she was working all the time. As soon as I was old enough, I taught myself to make some basics. It kept me from starving in college."

"Obviously." Bucky grins, and Steve can't help it, he smiles back. Bucky pours more coffee and sits down again. "So, here we are."

"Not where I thought I'd ever be."

Bucky sighs. "Me, neither. But then I never thought I'd come back like this." He immediately wishes he hadn't said that, because Steve's eyes go all sad and he looks like he wants to gather Bucky in a hug. And Bucky kind of wishes he would because something about being held against Steve's chest would make him feel like the world is all right.

Of course that doesn't happen. 

Sam returns to the kitchen. "Sorry, I had to take that call." He rubs his hands together and takes a deep breath. "Mmm, pumpkin pie. Thanks, James."

"No problem. If you have anything else I can do with one arm …"

"If I can get you both to do some KP jobs for me, like peeling potatoes, Steve?"

"Sure, but you don't want to tax my culinary skills. They're somewhat limited."

Which is how they find themselves working companionably side by side, while Sam preps two turkeys and gets them in the oven along with two pans of dressing. Bucky doctors canned cranberry sauce and Steve chops nuts for a topping on the sweet potatoes. 

Sam's friend Clint arrives with vegetable casseroles and bottles of sparkling cider and cranberry juice, followed by an absolutely stunning redhead and a quiet older man in an impeccable suit. He holds out his hand to Bucky. "My name is Phil, you'll have to excuse Clint if he seems to be ignoring you or speaking too loud. His hearing aids are at home. If you need him to do something, he lip reads, or pantomine it. If he pretends he doesn't understand, he doesn't want to do it. He's kind of a pain like that." Coulson says in a louder voice than normal.

Clint turns. "I heard that, Phil."

"Good. You were supposed to."

Clint just laughs and hands the casseroles to Sam. "Microwave to heat up, then put the crispy onions on and finish in the oven."

"Got it," Sam says and gives Clint a hug. "Clint, meet Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers."

Clint's handshake is warm and firm. He glances at Bucky's arm. "IED?" He asks, curious but not in the ghoulish way some people ask. He _knows_ loss. Bucky nods. "Sorry, man. I lost my hearing from a concussion grenade. Sucks to be us, right?" 

But he's smiling and Bucky can't help smiling back, even if his is a little rueful. He glances at Steve, who is talking to the man in the suit and the gorgeous redhead. Clint drags him over. "Hey, Natasha, this is James. James, Natasha. Don't ask her what she does, she'll have to kill you."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "Never mind Clint. I'm off the clock. Nice to meet you, James." She gives him a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. It says survivor to him, and while he wants to know her story, he doesn't want to charm it out of her; but Steve is standing right there in his goodness and kindness that shine like a light around him. Natasha gives Bucky an all-knowing smile. "So, it's like that?"

"What?"

She laughs softly. "He's worth it, I get it."

"I don't even know him," Bucky demurs. He must be looking at Steve like a kid looking at the floats at Macy's parade. 

"Whose fault is that?" She laughs softly. "There's always a chance to change that."

Bucky is spared from answering by several new arrivals for the feast. An hour later, fifteen people are gathered around the tables set up in the meeting room. Veterans who have no family and don't want to be alone, some with wives and children who want to thank Sam and the staff for their help, two older, homeless veterans of the Vietnam war who are ushered upstairs to clean up and pick out new clothes, men and women gathering together to offer thanks for kindness, for friendship, for being alive. 

Bucky forces himself to stay and eat, but as soon as the meal is over, he excuses himself and flees to the relative quiet of Sam's office. It's too much — too many people, too much noise, too many conversations going on at once … 

"Bucky?" Steve looks in. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah … no." He runs his hand through his hair. "Maybe, I don't know." He takes a breath and looks into Steve's blue eyes. "It's just a little overwhelming. I must be crazy not to be able to eat a meal with a few people without having a panic attack."

"I get it." Steve sets a broad, warm palm on his back, rubbing small, comforting circles. "Do you want to be alone?"

Bucky's first instinct is to say yes, but looking at Steve, he can't. "Can you stay?"

"Sure. Do you want to share some pie?"

"You mean you'll eat the pie I made?"

"I don't think you'll poison anybody. It smells wonderful. I'll be right back."

True to his word, he's back, balancing two plates and two cups of coffee. "I brought some pecan pie, too. Apparently, one of the benefactors of the center is Tony Stark. He sent it over."

"Stark?" Bucky nearly chokes. "The weapons guy?"

"Former weapons guy according to Sam. The pie is from Blackbirds, not his kitchen, so I think we're safe." Steve hands Bucky a fork and they share the two pieces of pie. Bucky's surprised that his pie tastes like he remembers his mother's, and admits that the pecan is delicious. 

"This should hold me for a day or so," Bucky sighs. 

"What do you mean?"

"This is temporary … at least for me. I mean, I'll be around. Sam is helping me with some paperwork. But its not long term." 

"I know." He looks like he's about to say something but Bucky cuts him off.

"Fuck it," Bucky says. "Let's go back to the kitchen. I'm not passing on more pie while I have a chance."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, it seems a little more quiet."

It is. The families have gone and the other vets have either left or are upstairs, leaving the same group that had started the day sitting around the table. They all look tired, but satisfied and it looks like Sam has opened the bottles that aren't sparkling cider. 

Dr. Banner looks at Steve. "You look better, but I'd be happier if you would let me take a listen to your lungs."

Steve nods and gets up. "I haven't coughed much and I'm taking the antibiotics." He'd like to object, but he follows Bruce out of the kitchen. 

"Can you have a drink?" Sam asks. 

"Yeah. I'm not on any medications and I don't have a drinking problem, if that's what you're asking."

"Well, I was trying to be tactful," Sam grins, and Clint gives a short laugh. 

"Nice job, Falcon."

"Thanks, _Hawkeye_."

Phil leans in when he sees Bucky's puzzlement. "Clint was a sniper, and Sam was pararescue. They both have a thing about birds."

"Well, that explains it." It really doesn't, but it makes Coulson smile.

Coulson holds up a bottle of really nice bourbon. "Pick your poison."

"That's pretty classy poison," Bucky says. He nudges his glass toward Phil. "I'll take my chances."

Phil's eyes crinkle. "So, Sam said you're looking for a place to stay?"

"Sam talks too much," Bucky sighs. "But, yeah. Ideally ASAP. But I can survive."

"You shouldn't have to just survive," Phil says, his kind eyes remind him of Steve's. "Clint and I can help with that. You wouldn't know it to look at him, but he owns an apartment building in Bed-Stuy. It's not fancy, and a lot of the units need repairs, but it's livable and cheap." He nudges Clint. His hands move swiftly through sign language, and Clint lights up. 

He looks at Bucky. "I have a two bedroom unit. Maybe you and Steve would like to take it?"

Bucky knows his mouth is open. This is beyond generous. "Umm … I don't have any money."

Clint shrugs. "So you'll pay me when you get things straightened out. And honestly, having you in the building will help the other tenants feel more secure. They like veterans."

Bucky is still nearly speechless. "When can I — " He stops. "I just spoke for Steve. I don't know what he wants."

Clint waves that aside. "I talked to him when you were out of the room. He's fine with it if you are. Ask him yourself."

"Ask me what?" Steve slides in the chair next to Bucky. 

"About the apartment."

"I'm willing if you are." He's so earnest, so concerned that Bucky blinks. 

"Hell, yeah," he finally says. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

Coulson taps Clint on the shoulder and signs their acceptance. Clint holds out his hand. "Welcome to Chez Barton. It ain't fancy but there's heat and hot water. Oh … and it's furnished, mostly secondhand for now, but —"

"Clint, I've been on the streets for months. A bare floor would have served as long as there's heat."

Steve shakes Clint's hand and signs a thank you." Clint's eyes widen. Steve blushes. "I had hearing problems when I was young. My mom taught me to sign in case I would need it."

Clint looks delighted. He calls across the table, his voice a little loud with excitement. "Hey, Sam. Buck and Steve are gonna come home with me. They're taking one of my apartments."

Sam's smile is beautiful. "That's great, man! Let's have a toast to new beginnings."

Steve and Bucky clink glasses and smile at each other over the rims. "New beginnings," Steve says, and there's something in his voice and in the tint of a blush across his cheeks that makes Bucky think there's more to the toast than a new home. 

"Happy Thanksgiving, Steve." Beneath the table, Steve's hand rests on his thigh. He raises a brow at Bucky, silently asking if that touch is all right.

"It's all good," he whispers, leaning close to Steve. For once, he doesn't care that it's his damaged side pressing close, because Steve is glowing at him, surrounding him with warmth and the promise of more than Bucky ever dreamed he'd have.

**The End**


End file.
